The Masterpiece

It wasn’t even a real theater.

The room belonged to my cousin Tom, who leased it for almost nothing on account of it supposedly being “haunted.” It was part of a four joint strip mall located in the middle of an old rundown neighborhood where it had sat empty for decades, still as brand new as the day it was built, back when Tom’s daddy was in grade school. The only blemish on the otherwise flawless exterior were the boarded up windows in Tom’s movie theater. Apparently, a runaway convict had been hiding out in that very room for weeks when the police found him sitting outside having a smoke. No one knew his name, so folks started calling him Jenkins on account of his preferred drink. Jenkins was no idiot of course, and he barricaded himself inside Tom’s theater with his ammunition and his booze ready to stay, he said, until the Good Lord himself should come back to earth and decide what to do with him. Unfortunately, the cops weren’t very religious folk and not inclined in the least to wait on The Lord to show up, so they shot out the windows and sent Jenkins to meet his maker a little bit ahead of schedule. Tom says that was mighty considerate of them.

Anyways, the whole place was darker than the palm of Satan’s hand because no natural light came into the room, and the light fixture in the ceiling was useless since the building had no power. We all carried flashlights which we would turn on and stand in a row by the back wall to flood the place with enough light to see by, but not enough to expel the dark. Movie theaters had to be dark, or you couldn’t see the film. The walls had been hastily covered with a bright red and white striped wallpaper, crooked in places, and filled with air-pockets so that it looked like there were things inside those bubbles that were pushing to explode out of them at any second. The smell of stale, day old popcorn and sweating bodies settled in a fog over the tiny little room choking out any real air left. Tom said all theaters smelled like that. In order to play the films, Tom had set up a portable generator that he had hooked up to a projector and the thing made so much racket that it was nearly impossible to hear what was going on, so we almost always had to turn on the subtitles.

—This is where real cinema went down.

One night, we were showing one of those Monty Python films during “kids’ night”(entrance fee only 5 dollars) when the generator made a tremendous rattling sound, popped, and went out with a lingering hiss and a small explosion of light. As our eyes adjusted to the sudden blackness, some of the rather small children began to whimper and the older children immediately broke into frenzied whispers. The room suddenly felt like a funeral. The whispering melted into one continuous hiss, and in the dark beside me, the walls groaned with extra weight. Tom’s voice cut through the dark jerking me abruptly back to reality.

“Aw, shit. Shit shit shit.” He kicked the generator a few times, and unsurprisingly, this had no effect. I blinked a few times, reorienting myself to the situation and found that the whispering had stopped. A voice spoke up directly behind me.

“That’s the second time this week that this has happened!”

Tom’s voice shot back, clearly annoyed, “I know, shut up. I’m tryna think.”

“I want my five dollars back,” one kid hollered.

“Yeah me too!” another kid chimed in, and soon all the kids were demanding their money back.

Tom released an exasperated sigh. “Y’all be quiet!” he commanded, and when the room was once more silent, he continued, “You ain’t getting your money back, because the show isn’t over.” He looked at me and then at the generator. “Hey Mal, when exactly did the film cut out?”

I shrugged. “Uh, I don’t know the exact time but—”

“No, Mal, keep up here. I’m not asking for the time. I’m asking at what point in the film did the generator die? They were at the bridge right?”

“Oh—yeah, I think so. Lancelot had already gone across.”

“Excellent. Mal, you and I will act out the rest of the movie. That way everyone will still get what they paid for.”

I blinked, incredulous. “What, like a play?”

“Sure, exactly like a play. Come on, I’ll be Arthur and you can be Galahad. We’ll switch between other roles.”

I shook my head, “Tom, come on, just give them their money back. I—”

“No, this is a great idea!” One of the older kids was standing on his chair and looking around the room of dark faces excitedly. He turned to Tom. “It’s okay mister Tom, we don’t want our money back anymore. We’d rather put on a play!”

“Now wait a minute—”

This time Tom was interrupted by a tiny room full of cheering and hollering kids. He looked at me and I just shrugged my shoulders at him resignedly. The damage had already been done.

The kids made short work of divvying up the remaining roles in the scene and were moving around the room like ants, stacking chairs against the wall and moving boxes into a row at the front of the room to serve as the “bridge.” In the meager light provided by the flashlights, the kids popped in and out of the shadows like pantomime demons popping out of the darkness and melting back in again. It was highly mesmerizing to watch, and I was jolted out of a trance when one of the kids grabbed my hand and dragged me over to the front of the room.

“You’s Galahad,” he informed me. “That means you die.”

I had to appreciate the kid’s efficiency. When it came time for me to “die” I jumped over the “bridge” and flopped to the floor. I’m no actor but it felt awkward just to lay there, so I did the only thing that seemed appropriate for a dead man to do: I began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. I was interrupted by the kid playing Bedevere.

“Well hang on—he’s talkin’ or somethin’. Is he dead or ain’t he?”

“He is.” I answered.

“Then stop talking! Dead people don’t talk.”

“This one does.” This statement was met with instant protest.

“You can’t do that—that’s not how he did it in the movie!”

“He ain’t dead! He don’t look very dead to me!”

Over on the other side of the room, Tom stood with his hand on his chin looking at me thoughtfully. “The kid’s right, Mal, it ain’t real. It has to be real.”

He went out and came back about five minutes later with an open can of tomato sauce.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, immediately suspicious.

“Outside.”

“Where outside?”

“The dumpster. Don’t worry, it wasn’t open—it’s a pop tab—I opened it myself.”

My own protests were drowned out by the kid’s overwhelming approval.

“Now it’ll look like he’s really dead!”

“It can’t be real,” I pointed out, “we’re acting.”

“Of course it can,” said Tom as he poured tomato sauce over my face and clothes. “Now be still and stop talking.”

I guess there are worse things than being covered in tomato sauce.

—Like I said, we take stories seriously here.

After the tomato sauce incident, I firmly refused to be a part of any more “plays.” At least I didn’t have to worry about it for a few days anyways. Tom had to shut down the theater until he could fix the generator, and new parts for it wouldn’t arrive for several days. I was in the theater by myself the day after the incident cleaning up the left over tomato sauce stains off the floor, and it was not a task I did with relish. I had a single flashlight with me, and I propped the door open to let in a bit of natural light, but even then, I could not drive out the dark. In the semi-darkness, the sauce looked like blood and in the silence it was easy to recall the way the walls had groaned. Thinking about the air-pockets (and things being inside them) made me increasingly uneasy, and I tried not to look at them as I worked. I finished up as quickly as I could and gathered up my soiled cleaning rags for a trip to the dumpster (the same one where Tom had supposedly found the tomato sauce in the first place). I dumped my load and walked back to the theater relived to be done, intending on retrieving my flashlight before heading home.

I was just getting ready to duck inside the door when I nearly collided with someone coming out. I yelped and jumped back, striking a defensive position and on the verge of a heart attack. The stranger stepped out of the dark doorway and into the bright sunlight. He was tall and lean, dressed in ragged, poorly patched clothes that looked like they belonged to someone two times smaller than he was. The cuffs of his pants and shirt stopped above his ankles and wrists, and his bare feet were covered in a layer of dirt and grime. His head was covered with wiry grey hair but his face was cleanshaven. He smiled at me, and I noticed that most of his teeth were missing. He looked faintly surprised to see me standing just a few feet away from him.

“I’m mighty sorry ‘bout dat. I didn’t see you there.”

A long silence followed this statement. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak, but my heart was still going a mile a minute and my mouth had gone dry. The best I could do was lower my defensive stance. He looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face.

“Well I reckon you can speak can’t ya?”

I began to calm down. “Yes.” I licked my lips and swallowed. “You just startled me is all.”

“Well, again I’m mighty sorry ‘bout dat.”

I looked from the stranger to the open doorway. “What were you doing in there?”

“Oh me? I was just seeing who left this here flashlight in there all by itself.”

I didn’t notice until then that he was holding my flashlight. “That belongs to me,” I said.

“Okay. Well, I won’t keep it from you.” He held out the flashlight to me and I stepped forward to take it.

“Thanks.” I put the flashlight in my back pocket and shuf fled my feet awkwardly not really knowing what else to say.

The stranger slipped both hands in his pockets. “What’s your name?”

“Mal,” I said.

“Mal? Well, what kind of name is that?”

I sighed. “It’s short for Mallory.”

The stranger gave a short laugh. “Isn’t Mallory a girl’s name?”

“My parents wanted a girl.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh—that’s a shame.”

“Not really.” I shrugged, and half turned away hoping he would take the hint.

“Okay.”

I looked back over my shoulder hoping to see Tom—or anybody—walking down the alley behind me. I looked again from the open door to the stranger. He was still standing be- tween me and the door so that I couldn’t close and lock the building without stepping around him and putting my back towards him. I decided I’d have to draw him further out into the alley.

“Well, I’ve told you my name,” I said, “what’s yours?”

His demeanor seemed to change immediately and his toothless grin suddenly seemed to be bared in malice.

“Who me?” He tapped his chest with one finger. I nodded.

“My name is Jenkins.”

He must have seen the blood freeze in my body because he started laughing, and the sound of it nearly dragged me so far into the dark that black spots danced in my peripheral vision. Still laughing, he stumbled a few steps forward wheezing for breath and leaned against the brick wall for support. He pointed one grimy finger at me. “You—you done look like you’s seen a—a ghost!” His laughter subsided into chuckles and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

I took a few deep breaths and the black spots vanished. I looked at the old man before me weak with laughter and I felt an overwhelming sense of irritation. My jaw clenched and I glared at him.

The stranger noticed the change of expression on my face. He stopped laughing. “What’s the matter now? You mad?”

“Yeah I’m mad! You’re making a fool out of me!” I accused him.

He straightened up and adopted a very serious expression. “What? Me? Nah, you misunderstood is all. I was just having a bit of fun. Here. Let’s start over. My name is Leroy, but most folks call me Leo. How do you do Mr. Mallory?” He tipped his hat and dropped into an exaggerated bow.

“Mal,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Most people call me Mal. I hate Mallory.”

“Oh-ho-ho! So I’m “people” now? Why only five minutes ago I was just an old hobo, but now—now I’m “people.” He grinned and I felt my insides twist.

“Okay, look,” I was running out of patience. “I just need to shut the door and lock the theater.” I stepped forward to shut the door, but the stranger moved fast for an old man and grabbed my arm standing in the doorway of the theater. I heard a small metallic click and felt the point of a gun press up against my chest.

“Now hang on, don’t be so hasty. We were having such a nice little conversation.”

I froze, thinking wildly through all my available options. The stranger pressed forward with the gun, so I backed up with my hands in the air. “What do you want? I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, I don’t want money. I’m just going to kill you.”

“Wait, what?” I was trying to make sense of this sudden turn of events. “Why?”

“Oh. No reason.” He grinned again and up close, the scent of rotting gums made me gag.

Well, shit. I wasn’t about to let some old hobo shoot me in an alley for no reason.

Still grinning, he stepped back and wrapped his finger around the trigger. I moved in that same instant. Without thinking, I attacked and overpowered the old man, disarmed him, and sent three bullets through his chest. His body fell to the ground in slow motion and his face was frozen with a look of surprise. I stood for a moment staring at the body with the gun still pointed out in front of me. A growing sense of horror and panic rose inside me as I looked at the man I had just murdered. My hands began to shake, and I lowered the gun, taking quick short breaths. I looked behind me expecting to see cops materialize around the corner of the building, but my attention was immediately brought back to the scene in front of me. The body began convulsing and emitting a horrifying sound that sucked my soul right out of my lungs. And then suddenly it sat up, and I realized it was laughing.

I raised the gun again, confused beyond any capability of rational behavior. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t hold the gun steady. “Stay back!” I shouted.

The laughter stopped and the old man clammered slowly to his feet. “Well, don’t have a heart attack now. I ain’t dead. You can’t kill me with that gun anyways. It’s filled with blanks.” He dusted off his jacket and stood watching me with a hint of an amused smile on his face.

I just started at him, barely registering what he was saying.

“Did you hear me? I ain’t dead.”

When I still didn’t answer her stepped back and held up his hands in surrender. “Go ahead. Try again if you don’t believe me.”

I looked at the gun in my hands and the feeling of horror and disgust intensified when I realized what I very nearly had done. I turned and threw the weapon into the dense growth along the right side of the alley. “I didn’t kill you,” I said. And as I said it, a feeling of relief swept over me, and I felt my head clear. “I didn’t kill you.” I said again, louder and more confident.

“But you thought I was dead, didn’t you? You shot me without a moment’s hesitation when you thought your life was in danger.”

“You were going to kill me! I had no choice.”

“Are you sure? I’m an old man. You easily overpowered me. There was no need to shoot me. You want to know why you did?” He moved a few steps closer. “You’re a killer. A cold blooded killer.” He began laughing again at the horror stricken expression that crossed my face.

“I’m not a killer!” I shouted above the noise, panic beginning to set in again. “It wasn’t real--I shot you with blanks.” My breathing became rapid and I was close to tears.

“Not real?” His tone became condescending. “What do you know? Nothing. You know nothing. You were saving your own skin. And that’s as real as real can get.” He stepped so close to me that he was only inches away, and the scent of rotting gums wafted into my face with every word. “That’s almost worse ain’t it?” He whispered. “The knowing? Knowing will haunt you forever.”

“Knowing what?” I whispered back.

The old man threw his head back and laughed.

There are no words to describe the profound horror that settled over my soul that moment—or after when the sound of the stranger’s laughter echoed down the alley as he melted into the lengthening shows and was gone as suddenly as he had come.

Head reeling, I walked back into the theater. The dark was whispering to itself, and it settled into a fog over my body, choking the air out of my lungs. The room suddenly felt like a funeral. The whispering melted into one continuous hiss, and in the dark beside me, the walls groaned with extra weight. In a trance I walked to the nearest wall and felt for the air-pockets. My fingers met shredded and ripped wall paper, and beyond that, exposed wall. The air-pockets had exploded, and inside them—

There was nothing.